Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all along our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day; With a patient hand removing All the briars from our way. TIRED MOTHERS. A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, From underneath a thatch of shining hair: Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight, You do not prize this blessing overmuch You almost are too tired to pray, to-night! But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day, We are so dull and thankless; and too slow The little child that brought me only good! And if some night when you sit down to rest, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children, clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown! If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor; If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its music in my home once more; If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky There is no woman in God's world could say blissfully content than I. She was more But, ah! the dainty pillow next my own THE INN OF REST. TOILING among my garden thorns one day, While in a stirless swoon the hot air lay, A traveler passes toward the glowing west, Who seemed intent upon some cheerful quest, For with a song he did beguile the way. Perhaps some question stirred within my eyes, For thus he spake: "In yonder valley lies, Among the murmurous trees, the Inn called Rest; Where all the pillows are with poppies strewn, Where toil-worn feet are shod with silken shoon, And bed of down awaits each jaded guest; I haste at this good Inn to make request, For see! the dial marks the hour of noon." "God grant," I cried, "you reach that threshold soon!" The singer passed, and in the winding lane, I left the church, and careless where I went, Behind its ivied walls my footsteps bent, Among the low green tents where dwell the dead; The chill winds sobbed among the grasses sere Which thatched the narrow roofs. The sky was drear, And drops of rain fell on my down-bent head. A name, and dropped upon these words a tear: 'He sought an Inn of Rest, and found it-here." SOMETIME. SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, But wear your sorrow with obedient grace! And stand within and all God's workings see, But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! I think that we will say, 'God knew the best!" IF. IF, sitting with this little worn-out shoe I knew the careless feet had pattered through me, And I could see beyond the mists of blue God's tender hand, I could submissive be. If, in the morning, when the song of birds. Reminds me of a music far more sweet, I listen for his pretty broken words And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be almost happy, though I heard No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. I could be glad, if, when the day is done, By just the travel of a single day." If I could know those little feet were shod If he had died, as little children do, I would not stain the wee sock on my knee With bitter tears, nor kiss the empty shoe And cry, "Bring back again my little boy to me!" I could be patient, until patience grew But oh, to know the feet once pure and white, The haunts of vice have boldly ventured in! The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! And should he knock at heaven's gate to-night, Alas my boy could scarce an entrance win! MY MOTHER. THE Sweetest face in all the world to me, This is my mother. Is she not most fair? Ten little heads have found their sweetest rest 'Tis counted something great to be a queen, And bend a kingdom to a woman's will. To be a mother such as mine, I ween, Is something better and more noble still. O mother! in the changeful years now flown, Let fortune smile or frown, whiche'er she will; It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways! I never shall be quite bereft until I lose my mother's honest blame and praise! CROSS-PURPOSES. WHAT Sorrow we should beckon unawares, The storm for which you prayed, whose kindly shock Revived your fields, and blessed the fainting air, Drove a strong ship upon the cruel rock, And one I love went down in shipwreck there. I ask for sunshine on my grapes to-day; I greeted with cold grace and doubting fears Then be not clamorous, O restless soul, But hold thy trust in God's eternal plan! He views our life's dull weaving as a whole; Only its tangled threads are seen by man! Dear Lord, vain repetitions are not meet When we would bring our messages to Thee. Help us to lay them then at Thy dear feet In acquiescence, not garrulity! CH CHARLES G. BLANDEN. HARLES GRANGER BLANDEN was born. at Marengo, Illinois, January 19, 1857. After receiving such instruction as the public schools afford, his education was supplemented by a course at Edinboro, Pennsylvania, and at a private school in Bridgeport, Connecticut. At an early age he wrote verse, and while attending school at Bridgeport started a school paper called Young Ideas, and was also a contributor to The School-Day Visitor. In 1874, Mr. Blanden located at Fort Dodge, Iowa, and the following year became book-keeper in the First National Bank of that place. Shortly after he was made assistant cashier and this promotion was followed by another making him cashier, which position he at present holds. In addition to such titles as Poet and Banker, Mr. Blanden might also claim that of Politician, although he undoubtedly holds his political achieve. ments to be of small account. They are of enough importance, however, to distinguish a man of smaller attainments. In 1887 he was elected mayor of Fort Dodge, and his administration of municipal affairs has proven him an excellent official. During the last,idential election, he was made chairman of the Aej ublican Central Committee of his county. In 1884, Mr. Blanden was married to Elizabeth Mills, of Ottumwa, Iowa. Mrs. Blanden is the daughter of an Episcopal rector, and is in every way qualified to be the life companion of a poet. Her natural endowments, of a high order, have been ripened by rare educational opportunities. Tancred's Daughter, and Other Poems," recently published, is the first volume Mr. Blanden has put forth. While representing the quality of his work, it by no means gives the reader an idea of the quantity, equally good, this poet has done. "Tancred's Daughter," the poem which gives the book its title, is composed of six hundred lines, and is only one of several poems which other critics than the author would place beside it; and of the shorter poems which appear in this book, however good they are (and to me they seem to call for the highest praise), the same may be said. Of his poetical works an eminent critic remarked in a recent review: "A noble dignity characterizes this poet's verses; his most pretentious effort, "Tancred's Daughter," is singularly well sustained in the elaboration of its elevated theme. Yet we are not sure that we do not prefer the lighter work-such graceful, breezy little bits as High Ho,' A Glass of Wine,' 'To a Critic,' 'Pomona' and those others of that ilk, which the poet may not set much store by, but which are bright and refreshing with that indefinable subtlety called touch." W. S. L. DAWN. CHASTE pilot of the dawn, The morning star a golden welcome finds In peaceful kingdoms and in quiet minds. Up, up! ere it be gone. A rosy shell along the shore of night This dewy hour appears, A nautilus, around the world that sails Thro' all the rolling years, Blown hitherward by cool and spicy winds, THOUGHTS OF KEATS. THIS athlete strength-this home of health-this frame Built up to pass the prophet's numbered days Is a sweet blessing in the common ways. Thankful am I, yet often do I name One all grand and glorious child of fame, Diseased from birth, dead young, born to the bays, And late-oh, all too late-receiving praise His due; then I do burn with wholesome shame To think: Had he this healthful body mine With which to ward away insidious death, What other wonders had his spirit done! These months to him had been a boon divine, With inspiration freighting every breath, And Beauty through a thousand splendors, won. II. Within the shades of Cestius' pyramid Still doth our Adon slumber on in death. In foreign earth and there be no word saith In song a Grecian for sweet Beauty's sake, Yet loved he England more than Greece or Rome. III. O Keats; thy spirit was too keenly fine And froward bristling time; far too divine Of thy supernal themes, some goddess, proud And jealous, doomed thee to a deathless swoon, As he on myrtled Latmos long ago Wast doomed. I will not think thee in thy shroud, But sleeping quietly and waking soon. TO LISA. HER heart, her mind, her voice, her looks! The world would need no other bard, PANDEAN. HAVE you seen Pan? I heard him pipe. Have you scen Pan? I heard him pipe; I peeped me 'neath the sheltering boughs But no god found. Have you seen Pan? I heard him pipe, And down the forest wide I hastened on in swift pursuit : Him ne'er I spied. Have you seen Pan? I heard him pipe, Have you seen Pan? (I heard him pipe.) Or I shall think that wreath and reed LUCASTA TO HER LOVER, ON HIS GOING TO THE WARS. And through its maintenance and scars, |